


So Soft, So Calm, Yet Eloquent

by bene_elim



Series: so bright the darkness that we shared [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: (not that Spencer is a lightweight), Angst, Character Study, Cheek Kisses, Drunk Aaron Hotchner, Drunk Spencer Reid, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, a lil bit, because this is me and i can't write anything without it being sorta a character study, but Spencer gets nevrous n runs away, hmm this is the first time I start messing around with non-canon things, its cute okay, not sure how to feel about it tbh, so I guess that means a little bit of, though Hotch's drunkness is more subtle... i imagine hes less of a lightweight than Spencer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bene_elim/pseuds/bene_elim
Summary: In which Rossi throws a team party and Spencer drinks perhaps a little more than usual, giving him the courage to do something that he would definitely not otherwise do.-"‘You’re staring, Reid,’ Hotch said, turning his head with the sluggishness of one who, in fact, does not mind being stared at – or perhaps with the sluggishness of one whose reactions are slightly delayed as a result of the alcohol that one has drunk.‘Mmm, sorry,’ Spencer replied, with the tone of one who is, in fact, not sorry in the least. He did not avert his gaze. Now they were facing each other, and Spencer was briefly reminded of Victorian silhouette portraits and, conversely, the fashion of portrait painting as a whole."
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Series: so bright the darkness that we shared [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804735
Comments: 18
Kudos: 164





	So Soft, So Calm, Yet Eloquent

**Author's Note:**

> hello again! one or two things...
> 
> 1\. this is in honour of the cancelled pride parade that is supposed to be taking place today (27th). ive been looking forward to it for so long, unable to go previous years for a number of different reasons (not out, then busy, then forgot, then too anxious....) so i was super sad to hear that this year's was cancelled, though i obviously understand why. was supposed to be going for a weekend in brighton, too, but that also had to be postponed - so im having my gay celebration by finally trying my hand at a lil bit of slash in the cm fandom.  
> 2\. that said: i dont really dabble with non-canon, because i like knowing where i stand and when i start deviating from what is canon, i start losing the ability to write all that well. so while i love reading canon divergencies, ive never really tried my hand at them, and thus this is an experiment for me. not sure how i feel about it, if im totally honest. my comfort zone is more within platonic relationships, but i really wanted to have a go.  
> 3\. also ive mentioned before but i have absolutely zero confidence in my ability to write hotch's character faithfully, which is why he may seem to say little in this fic - i tried to get comfortable writing him by focusing on his actions first. 
> 
> ugh, why do i talk so much? im so sorry. i hope that i do this justice, that you don't all hate me, and that you enjoy the fic. 
> 
> (oh - title is from _she walks in beauty_ by lord byron, of course, a favourite of mine; the series title is from _poem (1971)_ by harold pinter, another favourite)

The ground spun with the tendency that the ground tends to do when one had drunk too much wine. Spencer, unsure on his feet on the best of days (his time as a quickly growing teenager, one day scrawny and the next the same height as the young adults surrounding him at collage, saw many attempts at controlling his limbs to little effect), had sought refuge from the onslaught of dizzying sensations by slumping in a chair on Rossi’s patio. His wineglass hung precariously from his lax fingertips, empty save for a couple of drops staining the glass a burgundy red. It reminded him, he thought with much less lucidity than he thought he had, of the drops of Christ’s blood on stained glass windows in churches.

A hand appeared in his field of blurry vision and grasped the slipping glass out of his hand. Spencer raised his head sluggishly and squinted at who his thief was.

Hotch. The man glared down at him, except that that was Hotch’s soft glare, the one that he contorted his face into when he was actually amused and just didn’t want anyone to know it. Spencer was an expert at Hotch’s expressions, because he was a profiler and good at his job, not to mention a genius.

No. Actually, it was because Spencer had spent his whole childhood learning how to read the smallest movements, the micro-expressions and subtle body language, of those around him. It helped him manipulate a situation to his advantage, to avoid detection as a neglected boy living alone with a sick mother, or as a target for bullies. But Spencer didn’t like to think of that, especially when he was drunk, and he could easily be led to tears.

Hotch. Right. Hotch was glaring down at him, though the expression was slipping into something more confused and possibly a little concerned. The nuances of human emotion. Sometimes he liked to think of his job as a profiler as somewhat like that of an artist, who also must look at human nature in order to make art that resonates with an audience – and especially portrait painters, who really must understand the smallest differences in expression and how they can change everything. If Spencer had been a painter, he would be quite enamoured with Hotch’s face, because his emotions were normally so hidden at work, but when he was among friends and family, his face became the most exquisite example of emotion, and it would make quite the study to paint, he was sure.

‘Reid?’

The low tones of Hotch’s voice pieced sharply through the haze that Spencer had happily sunk in, and he snapped his eyes back to Hotch’s. Now he sounded as concerned as his expression was. Spencer smiled – he liked how they matched. Hotch always had such regard for Spencer’s tendency to want things to match and be in line with each other. A concerned voice for a concerned expression.

‘Hotch!’ Was that too loud? It sounded a bit too loud to Spencer, who immediately winced after his mouth closed, but Hotch’s expression had regained some of its humour, so maybe everything was okay.

‘Everything alright there, Reid?’ Hotch asked, an eyebrow now raised. Spencer got the sudden urge to trace it with his fingers, so he did – in the morning, he would resolutely blame the alcohol, but for now, he was stuck on the way that Hotch’s face lit even more in deeper amusement. Spencer’s grin turned goofy and lopsided as he took in the change, and then followed the second rising eyebrow with his fingers, too.

‘Mmm, yeah. ‘M drunk, though,’ he said, and Hotch dignified that with a soft snort.

‘Yeah, you are,’ he replied, moving away to Spencer’s dismay and lowering himself into the matching chair across from him. Together, they turned to look out at Rossi’s garden, where the team was dancing and laughing, also in various degrees of inebriation. Their figures looked like the dynamic stars of a Toulouse-Lautrec painting, bright against the darkness of trees bordering Rossi’s large garden. It made Spencer dizzy just watching them twist and turn about with each other, giggling and waving their own glasses around for Rossi to indulgently, if shakily (for he, too, was hardly sober), top up. He wondered whether Hotch had joined him on the patio because was feeling as dizzy as Spencer was, or whether he’d just had enough excitement for the evening. Spencer certainly had – though he loved the team, he was ready for quiet, now.

‘You’re not gonna – gonna join them?’ He asked his companion, who had by this point sunk as deep into his chair as Spencer had himself, the padded pillows cradling his lax form. He looked soft, in the delicate glow of Rossi’s fairy lights that decorated the patio, as soft as Spencer had ever seen him.

‘No. I think I’d like to stay here, for a while.’ Hotch said, and Spencer understood. So would he. The evening was warm, after all, and the wine had warmed him, too; his heart felt full. It was such a bursting feeling, as though it might spill out of his chest at any moment, that Spencer found himself having to pause and contain it all inside. Warmth from neither heat nor wine wanted to worm its way out of his ribcage and up his oesophagus and into his mouth, to sit heavy on his tongue while he contemplated how many times in his life he had felt like this, how many people had made him feel like this, before spilling out past his lips to fall into his lap, into Hotch’s lap.

They were quiet and, risking a quick peek at the man beside him, Spencer settled back knowing that there was no obligation for anything other than quiet here. Hotch always had such regard for Spencer’s need for quiet. He had remained turned towards the team having fun on the lawn: eyeing Rossi settling down on one of the chairs around the now abandoned dinner table, watching JJ and Emily spin each other around and fall into giggles, Will and Derek copying them step by step and succeeding only because they had less to drink, Penelope standing aside cackling as she filmed the four on her phone. The ghost of a smile flittered on Hotch’s lips as Spencer watched his profile, levelling his eyes down the black, black hair, to the smooth forehead (so nice, Spencer passingly thought, to see it unwrinkled in ease when at work it is so often the opposite), the strong line of his nose and the alluring planes of his cheekbones and the dip of his philtrum, then the arches of his lips. Spencer lingered there, caught like fabric on a rose thorn, watching that faint smile and remembering what it had been like to trace Hotch’s eyebrows with his fingers, and whether it would feel the same or even better to trace his lips, too.

‘You’re staring, Reid,’ Hotch said, turning his head with the sluggishness of one who, in fact, does not mind being stared at – or perhaps with the sluggishness of one whose reactions are slightly delayed as a result of the alcohol that one has drunk.

‘Mmm, sorry,’ Spencer replied, with the tone of one who is, in fact, not sorry in the least. He did not avert his gaze. Now they were facing each other, and Spencer was briefly reminded of Victorian silhouette portraits and, conversely, the fashion of portrait painting as a whole. In the morning, he would blame the alcohol and he would bury tonight so deep in his memories that he wouldn’t even have a chance to feel embarrassed for his actions, but for now, Spencer drank in the sight of Hotch’s attention solely on him, knowing that he’s staring and that Hotch knows that he knows that he’s staring, and allowing the warmth that had been bubbling in his chest all evening like a potion to envelope him. He sighed.

A smirk curled the edge of Hotch’s lips, sharp like a knife but still so subtle, faint, amusement given away more by the light in his eyes than anything else. ‘You don’t sound sorry,’ he said.

‘I don’t feel it, either,’ Spencer replied, his own smirk forming.

It felt a little like a game, though Spencer couldn’t say that he knew the rules or whether Hotch even knew he was playing. The night narrowed, and maybe Hotch felt it too, for, surely, he was leaning slightly more into Spencer’s space…: the light seemed to dim, only slightly, dipping, and the laughter and music from the lawn faded into the background. The edges of Spencer’s vision, already soaked in an alcohol blur, hazed even further, until it was just Hotch’s figure that seemed clear, surrounded by a dozen artificial blinking stars, all blurred.

He thought that perhaps he heard Hotch whisper his name – his first name, not Reid – and he wanted to frown in surprise, maybe pull back from how close they seem to have accidentally drifted, and ask what’s wrong, because Hotch _never_ calls him by his first name. But, instead, Spencer found himself falling a little closer, vision still not blurring, miraculously, even as he came so close to Hotch that he could smell the remnants of his cologne (base notes of amber and musk) and spy the hair growing back along his jaw. So, he slipped his eyes closed, drew in a breath as softly as he could, and brushed his lips just as soft along Hotch’s cheek, lingering… lingering…

When he realised what he had done, he drew back with shock at himself for doing such a thing, and surprise that Hotch hadn’t immediately drawn away. Hotch’s eyes had drifted closed, as well, and Spencer wished that they hadn’t, because now he couldn’t read Hotch’s emotions nearly as well – the rest of his face was relaxed and neutral, though his head was still tipped into Spencer’s direction.

A moment of sitting utterly still and feeling somewhat horrified at himself. Then Spencer tripped out of his chair and to his feet.

‘Uh,’ he said, as Hotch finally opened his eyes and looked at him – though, now, Spencer refused to look at him at all. ‘I am now. Sorry, that is.’

And then he turned and fled, ignoring Hotch’s call of _Spencer!_ from behind him and instead pulling out his phone and calling a cab to pick him up.

And, if on the way home he thought of how Hotch had smelled and how his cheek had been slightly rough with stubble against his lips, how his nose had fitted so easily against the planes of Hotch’s cheekbones and how Hotch’s hair had tickled his forehead – well, those thoughts could stay safely inside the safe of his head, and by morning he would lock them away in the furthest corner possible so that he may never think of any of it again.

How stupid he had been to try such a thing. But, oh, how softly Hotch had looked at him before, and how warm his skin had been beneath Spencer’s lips.

Just this evening. Then he’ll never think on it again.

**Author's Note:**

> i have an idea of where i might take this, if i decide to keep writing (which is, i must say, a decision rather influenced by what you, my readers, think, so hearing from you would be the only way for me to write more of this if you enjoyed it!). i had some success with a good omens fic i wrote with an idea that i think would suit spencer's character well, so if there is demand i will be happy to write that out and make this a series, perhaps. 
> 
> i appreciate you taking the time to read my work and, of course, it goes without saying that i am thankful beyond words for my past reviewers, who always give me the courage to keep posting my stupid little stories. you're all wonderful and are the reason i write. 
> 
> happy pride everyone! when i wake up in the morning, i shall go nowhere without my pride flag. but for now, i must sleep, for it is 1am.


End file.
